In a few days, however, he was compelled to actually consider the possibility of such a thing.  Mr. Stromberg had assumed an attitude of such extreme politeness, and Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, and if not possible, was constrained and unhappy in the familiar relations that she had accepted so happily all summer.  As for Christine, she had constant headaches, and her eyes were often swollen and red with weeping.

At length, without notice, the family left Newport, and went to stay a month with some relative near Boston.  A pitiful little note from Christine informed him of this fact; but as he received no information as to the locality of her relative’s house, and no invitation to call, he was compelled for the present to do as Christine asked him—­wait patiently for their return.

At first he got a few short tender notes, but they were evidently written in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief and anger.  When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty found the house where Christine was staying.  He was received at first very shyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery, the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not help it, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all very miserable.

Finally she was persuaded to let him see Christine, “just for five minutes.”  The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and, weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever.  The five minutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went back to New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had been broken in two for this life.

One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called.  “Franz,” he said, “have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry old Clarke?”

“Yes.”

“No one can trust a woman.  It is a shame of Christine.”

“Louis, speak of what you know.  Christine is an angel.  If a woman appears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind her forcing her to do it.”

“I thought she was to be your wife.”

“She is my wife in soul and feeling.  No one, thank God, can help that.  If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as Christine Stromberg.  Do not speak of her again, Louis.  The poor innocent child!  God bless her!” And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed his friend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation.

In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christine and James Barker Clarke were married, and began housekeeping in a style of extravagant splendor.  People wondered and exclaimed at Christine’s reckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; but though she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all their suggestions.  She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Vienna and London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever she went Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like a wretched spectre.